


The Burning Edge of Dawn

by stonecoldhedwig



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Multi, Narcastan, Plot twist about Draco, So much angst, There is no good ship name for Rabastan and Cissa, Vague reference to sex, thanks i hate it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24336238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldhedwig/pseuds/stonecoldhedwig
Summary: Love is a thing for fools; a painful, holy thing of two extremes, life or death.Rabastan Lestrange is in love.
Relationships: Rabastan Lestrange/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 12
Kudos: 13





	1. 1972

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Houseofmalfoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Houseofmalfoy/gifts).



> A gift for the wonderful Tessa, who puts up with me.

The first time was, theoretically, an accident. 

Well, as much as one could call a game of Spin the Bottle in the Slytherin Common Room over the Christmas holidays an _accident_. Rabastan supposed it could have been worse: Margaret Warrington was also playing, and she looked at him like she was hungry for something only he could satisfy. That, frankly, scared the shit out of him.

“Your turn, Bastan,” Rodolphus said lazily, lifting his head up from where it was settled against Augustus Rookwood’s lap. Rookwood’s hand stilled from where it was threading through Dolphus’ hair and Bastan had to bite the inside of his cheek so as not to laugh. _Just friends my arse_ , he thought. 

Rabastan grinned a little awkwardly, and leant forward out of his armchair towards the bottle sitting atop the coffee table. There was a good group of them at school over the holidays that year—most importantly, Rookwood, Narcissa, the Avery brothers and Dolohov. Outside of Narcissa and Rodolphus, Rabastan had never really felt the need to draw anyone else close, but the boys were the ones he’d been sharing a dormitory with for nearly six years now. They knew enough of his sins and his secrets to be called friends. 

“I’m really hoping I don’t get you, Gus,” Rabastan grinned, looking up at Rookwood, “or I think my brother might get very jealous…” 

He had the presence of mind to duck as Rodolphus sent a stinging jinx his way, followed by a stream of obscenities. Resurfacing, Rabastan held up a hand with a grin. “Ok, ok! Point taken, Dolphus…” 

He put his hand on the bottle and gave it a confident spin, the green glass shimmering as it span round-and-round. It felt like the eyes of the common room were upon him—but then again, perhaps they were? They weren’t the oldest there, but something about the group that Rabastan and Rodolphus had gathered around them just seemed to garner people’s attention; like gems glittering, full of promise.

The bottle swirled, and came to a slow, gentle stop. He breathed a sigh of relief that it hadn’t landed on Margaret Warrington, nor on the lanky figure of Severus Snape who was hovering to one side of the sofa where Rookwood and Rodolphus lounged. 

“Oh,” breathed Rodolphus, and Bastan could hear the delighted curiosity in his voice. 

_Narcissa._ Rabastan swallowed—probably audibly—when he realised who the bottle had stopped on. Sitting there in a black velvet dress, glass of elf-made wine held almost lazily in her hand, he could have sworn he saw Narcissa’s mouth twitch at the sides. _Fuck_. 

Narcissa. His best friend. His best friend who he was incredibly thankful did not have the power of legillimency or any other mind-reading powers because she’d been the subject of one too many lazy fantasies in the quiet of the night when he couldn’t sleep. Rabastan had chalked it up to the fact that she was the only girl he spent any time with on a regular basis; that, and the fact that she was fucking _beautiful_ regardless of their relationship. High cheekbones, fair hair like threads of gold, and cool blue eyes—any man would be a fool not to see the beauty. 

“C’mere then,” Bastan said gruffly. He jerked his chin up a little bit as he did, and something in Narcissa’s eyes seemed to cloud over at that gesture. And he couldn’t deny it—there was something richly satisfying about sitting there with his feet planted firmly on the ground, commanding Narcissa Black come over to slip into his lap and kiss him. 

“Alright,” she replied. A ripple of excitement—perhaps nervousness—seemed to flutter around their collected group of friends as Narcissa extracted herself from where she’d been braiding Fenella Selwyn’s hair. She moved casually from her seat to stand in front of his armchair, eyebrows raised. 

“So?” she asked. 

Rabastan patted his lap. Narcissa obliged—for the first time in her life, he thought. Settled into his lap, she turned to face him, giving him that raised eyebrow and that strange look that he just couldn’t decipher. 

He held her chin too tight when he kissed her—she told him so the next day. But that didn’t matter at the time because she tasted like peppermint creams and like the sharp tang of vodka that Dolohov’s grandmother had sent him for Christmas, which they had opened and shared together as the clock ticked steadily towards midnight. Peppermint creams and vodka and something powerfully electric that Rabastan couldn’t explain, only that it made him feel like he was coming alive. 

They pulled apart. A delicious flush the colour of a summer morning had crept into Narcissa’s cheeks, and one strand of her blonde hair had slipped from its pins. Rabastan reached forward to tuck it behind her ear, only for Narcissa to turn her head away from him and back to the circle of onlookers. Rabastan’s hand fell back to his lap. 

“Who’s turn is it next?” Narcissa asked smoothly, as though there was nothing out of the ordinary about the fact she was perched in Rabastan Lestrange’s lap, pressed up against where he was hard against the fabric of his trousers. Turned away from him like this, Rabastan thought he might just combust with the deliciousness of it all—Narcissa’s black velvet dress, the way her blonde hair was pinned, the way her waist curved like the soft dunes of the shore running down to the sea. 

There was something about the way she looked at him afterwards, though—blue meeting endless blue—that told him things would never again be the same. 


	2. 1973

The second time was absolutely intentional. The air at Slughorn’s Valentine’s Day party was heavy with the smell of sparkling champagne and perfume and the sweet sugary afterthought of shortbread. There had been a chocolate fountain and Rabastan had been over eager with the strawberries; his shirt now sported a large red splotch down the front of it. He grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray, and grimaced. 

Bastan had thought about sacking off the whole event and getting drunk in the little room in the Astronomy Tower with the spare telescopes and the phenomenal view of the night’s sky. There was something about Horace Slughorn that put his teeth on edge. He seemed to live in a permanent state of disappointment when it came to Bastan: the Quidditch captaincy and the OWL grades and the _pure blood_ never seemed to be enough. 

He’d brought Fenella Selwyn to the event, but only as a favour. She’d pulled him aside in the Slytherin common room one afternoon, not long after term began in January. With an embarrassed look on her face, she’d explained her situation. 

“Do me a favour, would you?” 

Rabastan frowned. “What kind of favour?” 

“Take me to Sluggy’s Valentine’s thing.” 

“Pardon?” 

“Please, Bastan?” Fenella sighed, and beckoned him closer. “It’s Aubyn, alright?” She nodded her head over to where a group of seventh years were gathered round the fireplace. Rabastan could easily spot Aubyn Wilkes among them. He was a tall, broad young man with a mop of auburn hair and a winning smile; most of the girls in Slytherin had liked him at some point or another. Rabastan always thought there was something not quite right about him—perhaps his eyes were too close together, or his mouth too wide. 

He turned back to look at Fenella. “Sorry, you need me to take you to Sluggy’s thing because of Wilkes…?”

“He’s not in the Slug Club, but we’ve been talking since everyone stayed for the Christmas holidays—” 

“If he’s not in the Slug Club, why do you need to go?”

Fenella pursed her lips, and Rabastan could have sworn she was about to stamp her foot. “Stop interrupting and I’ll tell you. Cissa said she’d ask him to go, and if you ask _me_ … then we can go and spend Valentine’s together.” 

“Oh.” Rabastan glanced back at where Wilkes was gathered with his friends. The year above them, Aubyn Wilkes was a powerful force around the castle. He nodded to Fenella. “Right, yeah, I’ll take you.” 

It had taken all of about three minutes for Fenella to leave Rabastan by the bar once they’d arrived. He couldn’t blame her—they’d had an agreement, after all—but something grated on him about the fact that once again, he felt on the periphery of things. Rodolphus, naturally, was one of Slughorn’s favourites, ushered towards the drinks with the professor almost as soon as they arrived. Rabastan’s lip curled as he watched his brother hobnobbing with some Ministry official with flushed red cheeks and a glass of mead clutched in his hand. 

Rabastan drained his glass of champagne and snatched up another. If nothing else, tonight he was going to get drunk. With one final, derisory glance at the cupids throwing paper hearts around the room and the large pink bubble floating in the air, Rabastan ducked out of the room, through a pair of shimmering pink drapes that kept the heat in, and onto the small terrace. 

He glanced up to see a fresh flurry of snow beginning to fall. The winter had been long that year, longer than it usually was—for months it had seemed like every morning, there was new frost on the grounds of the castle, glittering against the holly berries like sugar. The others had complained about it, but Rabastan relished the cold. He loved the sharp intake of breath when they stepped into the morning, and the way the fire felt like the truest magic when they came back home. 

Movement on the other side of the terrace caught his eye, and Rabastan’s hand moved instinctively to his wand. They said Hogwarts was the safest place on earth; they said that whoever was under Albus Dumbledore’s protection couldn’t be touched. Rabastan didn’t trust that for a moment—one man couldn’t possibly be the only light against all the darkness. 

He squinted into the night, and then lowered his wand. “Cissa?” 

“Decided not to hex me all the way to Hogsmeade, have you?” Narcissa replied, stepping into the light cast by the party. She was wearing that black velvet dress that Rabastan liked so very much; the one that hugged the gentle curve of her waist, that exposed the sharp lines of her collarbones. 

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, stowing his wand back in his pocket. “Can’t be too careful. What are you doing out here?” 

“Same thing you’re doing—avoiding the party neither of us want to be at. Unless, of course, I’ve got that wrong.” Narcissa raised her perfect eyebrow at him, and Rabastan felt something stir in the low depths of his stomach; something base and animal that made him want to tear the dress from her. He shook that thought away. 

“No,” Rabastan chuckled, and wandered over to where she was leaning against the stone balustrade. As he did so, he caught the scent of her perfume. She smelled like honeysuckle; like spring mornings and the dew that twinkled against the fresh green grounds at Lestrange Hall. She smelled like home. “No, you’re right. It’s not exactly the time of my life.” 

“You have a stain on your shirt, Bastan,” tutted Narcissa affectionately as he moved beside her. Pulling out her wand, she muttered a quick cleaning charm, and the bright red splotch vanished. “There, much better.” 

Instinctively, and without any thought for the consequences, Rabastan reached out and wrapped his hand around Narcissa’s wrist. Beneath his fingertips, he could feel her pulse fluttering against her skin. “We’re having a bad time because we didn’t bring the person we really wanted to, aren’t we?” he murmured, eyes scanning her face.

Narcissa’s eyes seemed to go wide for a moment, then fix on where Rabastan was tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. So much was unclear in that look, he thought, so much unsaid and unexplained. He wondered if the thing that had just slipped from his mouth had blindsided her; if, after everything, he was utterly and totally wrong about the meaning behind the way Narcissa Black looked at him.

Because she did look. Ever since the night over the holidays when they’d played Spin the Bottle and they’d kissed, she’d looked at him, hungry and wanting. He’d catch her looking at him over the breakfast table as he and Rodolphus poured over the Quidditch pages in the Daily Prophet. Their eyes would meet, and Narcissa would look away. Or sometimes, he’d catch her staring at him in the common room, or across the Potions classroom, or anywhere else for that matter, and there was _something_ about it. Sometimes, he’d stare back, mirth in his eyes. That stare would be goading her: _you like looking at me, don’t you, Narcissa? You like looking at me because I’m what you want._

“Yes,” Narcissa breathed finally, “yes.” 

Then, she was kissing him. Rabastan thought he might just explode on that very spot, on the terrace outside Slughorn’s Valentine’s Day party, of all places. All those stares that seemed _soaked_ in something, dripping with things unuttered—they all made sense. 

She tasted like champagne tonight. She tasted like champagne, and like secrets being wordlessly spilled.


	3. 1975

Light streamed through the windows and onto Rabastan’s face. He squinted, cursing himself for the fact that they hadn’t shut the curtains the night previous. His mouth tasted like something had died in it, frankly, and was drier than a Friday afternoon class with Professor Binns. 

Beside him, his bedfellow shifted, rolling over to press into the sensitive flesh at his side. Blue eyes squinted just like his against the morning light, and when she spoke, her voice was rasping. “What time is it?” 

“Seven o’clock. Far too fucking early for how egregiously hungover I am,” groaned Bastan.

“Well, you shouldn’t have drunk five bottles of Veela champagne last night, should you?” 

“Hindsight is a wonderful thing, Narcissa.” 

Wordlessly, Rabastan held out a hand in the direction of the door to the bathroom. There was a slight _thunk_ , and then soaring through the open doorway was a small, pale blue vial. He caught it with a Seeker’s ease and flicked the cork out with his thumb. 

Pausing before taking a drink, he eyed Narcissa beadily. “You want any?”

Narcissa shook her head. “No, I feel fine.”

“Correct answer.” 

They lay there together for a while as Rabastan waited for the hangover tonic to work its magic. He tried to put the night before back together in his mind—something hazy about removing his shirt, about flaming shots of something heady and powerful, about some game of magical polo in the middle of the night on the back of Rodolphus’ Granians. He remembered, too, slipping away from the raucous throng in the drawing room to grab Narcissa by the hand and lead her to his bedroom, where they had made hard, fast, filthy love to one another as the night broke in shards against the hard edge of dawn. 

“Lucius Malfoy asked me to dinner, you know.” 

Rabastan’s eyes snapped open and he looked down at Narcissa, nestled into the warm space between his chest and his arm. “Pardon?”

“Lucius Malfoy. He asked me to dinner.” 

“Last night?” Rabastan asked. 

Narcissa shook her head, avoiding his eye as she traced her fingers along the lines of his collarbone. “Last week, at Fenella and Aubyn’s wedding.” 

“Oh.”

She hadn’t told him. Rabastan stared back up at the ceiling, trying to parse why there was a bud of anger blooming in his chest that Narcissa hadn’t told him before now. They weren’t in a relationship; very specifically, they weren’t in a relationship, and they didn’t mention one another to their friends. It was the rule that Narcissa had insisted upon from the very first night they’d spent together in the Prefects’ study just off the Slytherin Common Room, looking up at him as she sank to her knees.

“My sisters think I should go,” Narcissa continued. 

“That’s because your sisters don’t know about me.” 

Narcissa rolled over onto her front. Pulling the sheet around her, she reached out a hand to play with the thin gold chain around Rabastan’s neck, to fiddle with the delicate medal that hung from it. “I think they might say I should go even if they did know.” 

Beneath the covers, Rabastan let his fingers trace vague patterns against the bare skin of Narcissa’s lower back. He knew his own back was marked with bright red lines, her handiwork. He’d ripped at the black dress she was wearing, pulled at the pearls that adorned her hair and the gold on her wrists. She’d retaliated with raking her fingernails down the skin of his back as she moaned filthily into his ear. 

“Are you going to go?” he asked. 

“I think so.” 

He’d known things couldn’t stay that way forever. They couldn’t be a dirty little secret for the rest of their lives, particularly now that Andromeda had married the mudblood. Rabastan was eligible, certainly; the second son of the sophisticated, wealthy Lestranges was hardly a bad catch. He’d thought about asking her to marry him—he’d gone so far as to have an engagement ring made, currently nestled in the back of his tie drawer. But something had stopped him—that niggling feeling that ultimately, Narcissa had higher ambitions than him. 

The awkwardness of the silence was practically tangible, some other presence in the room that seemed to bind them together. Rabastan cleared his throat. 

“Good,”he replied, resolute. He pulled his arm from beneath Narcissa and swung his legs round to hit the floor. With a vague wave, he summoned a fluffy white towel from the bathroom and stood, wrapping it around his waist. He glanced back to the bed. “You should go. Lucius is a decent guy, right? And it’s not like you’ve got anyone else in your life.” 

It came out harsher and more petulant than he’d intended it to. Narcissa’s face betrayed the hurt those words had caused, the rapid blink of her eyes suggesting a crack in her usually composed facade. He couldn’t take the words back, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. _In for a knut, in for a Galleon_ , he thought. 

“And by the way, Narcissa,” he continued roughly, turning and wandering towards the en suite and the welcome heat of the shower, “if you’re going to see other men, I suggest you get out of my fucking bed. We wouldn’t want to damage your reputation by letting it slip that I spend half my nights fucking you through the mattress, would we?” 

The bathroom door slammed before she could answer. 


	4. 1977

“I’m marrying him.” 

Rabastan had known it was coming. It would only be a matter of time before all those dinners Narcissa and Lucius had been going on turned into something more. She was a beautiful, wealthy, pureblood witch and he was one of society’s most eligible bachelors. Rabastan hadn’t been able to give her up when she started seeing Lucius; his resolve when it came to Narcissa was all but non-existent, after all. But now they were getting married… well, that changed everything. 

“Marrying him, right,” Bastan breathed, walking away from her to stand in the bay window that overlooked the corner of Diagon and Knockturn Alleys. “Right, of course you are.”

“It’s customary to congratulate me, you know.” 

Rabastan rounded on Narcissa, face thunderous. “Congratulate you?” he gaped. “You’ve been fucking me for what, four years, and you expect me to turn round and congratulate you because you’re marrying someone else?” 

Narcissa looked scandalised. “I have not just been _fucking you_ ,” she spat back, affront written all over her features. “How can you—how dare you—that’s not what _this_ is.” 

Rabastan ground his teeth together. _That’s not what this is_. He wanted to scream, to yell, to tear at the fabric of the room with his bare hands until she understood that _fucking_ was exactly what they’d been doing for four years. Part of it was his fault—of course it was—because his doubt had been a creature that screamed in the night, an insidious friend that had laboured on to his detriment. He should have asked her to marry him when he had the chance. But part of it… part of it had been Narcissa and her abject refusal to see what was right in front of her. 

It was Narcissa who broke the silence that pressed between them, as real and as physical as the desk behind which Rabastan stood.

“You and I can never marry,” began Narcissa, but Rabastan cut her off. 

“Says who? Who is it who writes these rules, Cissa, hm?”

“Your parents are dead, Bastan, and—“

He let out a sharp bark of a laugh. “You think I’m unaware of that, Cissa? I assure you, I don’t need reminding.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she hissed in reply. “You have to think about your future, about the future of the family. It makes no sense for you to marry me now Dolphus has married my sister. The family tree needs to grow out, not inwards.” 

Rabastan slammed his fist onto the top of the desk, causing the ink in the pot to jump up and splatter onto the emerald leather. He ignored the way the dark black droplets spread across the fabric, estuaries in sharp relief against his father’s desk. Instead, he rounded the table with his hands outstretched. 

“ _You_ are my future! You’re my past and my present too, Cissa, you know that. I’ve been your secret for all these years because you asked me to be—though I won’t ever pretend to understand why—but you can’t have failed to notice how ardently I love you. Hell, I tell you often enough!”

Narcissa didn’t say it back. She never said it back to him when they were clothed—it was only in the quiet of the night, their bodies pressed together, that she would whisper against his lips how much she loved him. Rabastan had stopped asking her about it; he’d stopped hoping that one day, she might glance at him across the room as they had morning coffee and tell him just how much she adored him. 

Narcissa’s voice wavered only a little. “I am doing this for you.” 

“No,” Rabastan shook his head, “that’s a lie. You’re doing this for _you_.” 

He didn’t quite understand how it happened, but they were kissing—lips and tongues pressed against each other, desperate. Rabastan wanted to stay in that moment for the rest of their lives, suspended in time and circumstance, but _together_. All too quickly, however, they broke apart. 

Rabastan looked into her face, and he felt his heart crumble and wither within his chest when he realised that he wasn’t sure he recognised the face looking back at him. Who had she become?“What are you doing, Cissa? Why didn’t you admit you were done with me the moment Lucius asked you to dinner with him?” he spat.

“Please,” Narcissa begged, her lips trembling millimetres from Rabastan’s. Her eyes flicked frantically back and forth. “Please understand, Bastan, I’m—“ 

“No,” he replied roughly, pushing her off him. “I don’t understand. You should go.” 

“Bastan, my darling—“ 

“Go.” He jerked his chin towards the door, fire and pride and pain burning bright in his eyes. “We are finished, Narcissa.” 


	5. 1981

“I don’t think I ever want to see you again. I hope they send you to Azkaban.” 

“Cissa,” he begged, “you know me, you know who I am and—“

“It’s not who you are, it’s what you did.” 

The black tiles of the Ministry holding cell shone bright under the harsh lights above them. Narcissa looked angrier than Rabastan had ever seen her. The anger seemed to glow around her; she all but hummed with it, pulsed with the fury that raged like wind and fire and flame in her eyes. At any other time, Rabastan would have mocked her for it—some comment about the ever-poised _Mrs Lucius Malfoy_ being as angry as a half-rate harpy in Knockturn Alley. 

Today was not the day for that. 

“Please—“ Rabastan began, reaching his hands forward only to remember they were held together by glowing silver chains. Narcissa shook her head and cut him off. 

“Lucius has only just managed to convince them that he was Imperiused,” she hissed with a furtive glance towards the door. “And now I am losing my best friends, my sister—for what? For some horrifying cruelty you all thought of as sport? You were _better_ than this.” 

Narcissa turned away from him, and Rabastan was transported back to being a teenager, that night she kissed him for the first time and turned her face from him. He’d not been able to read her then, and hell if he was able to do it now. They’d known each other for so long, and still, Narcissa was ancient runes, or Elvish, or some other language he didn’t know the name of and didn’t know how to translate. 

Turning her back on him felt like the final break; the dam burst and the water flooding through. Anger surged in him and he called out the one thing he had sworn to himself he never would. The one thing that would hurt her more than anything else. 

“And my son?” 

Narcissa stopped in her tracks. She turned, a look on her face that he couldn’t decipher, and walked back toward him until they were face to face. “What did you say?” she breathed.

“My son,” repeated Bastan. “Draco. You know as well as I do that there’s no way Lucius can be his father.”

Rabastan thought back to that night in September 1979, only two years gone and yet a lifetime away. The envelope had arrived by owl on the first—cream parchment edged with emerald green, so very tasteful. Inside it was an invitation on a small, sage green card.

_Mr and Mrs Lucius Malfoy_

_request the pleasure of your company_

_for dinner and dancing_

_on September 5, 1979_

_Mr and Mrs Malfoy._ Rabastan felt a burning rage in his chest as he threw the invitation into the fire. Frankly, it was a miracle that he was invited—he and Narcissa hadn’t spoken since her wedding day, the last time he’d known her as Narcissa Black. That was a year ago now, a hazy summer day at the end of August 1978, so full of promise. Things were never going to be the same again. 

He would still go to the dinner party, though. Rabastan sometimes wondered if he had something in him that was just inclined to self-flagellation—it would hurt him to see Narcissa standing there on Lucius’ arm, glowing with that pink secret that only new brides have. It would hurt him, and he would do it anyway, and deep down, he would enjoy it. 

Only, the night didn’t quite go as he’d planned. Certainly, there had been drinks and dinner, and Narcissa had floated around the room in robes the colour of pistachio ice cream, hair coiled atop her head. It had descended into far more debauched things as the night wore on—those sort of pureblood events always seemed to. No one noticed when Rabastan—drunk on champagne and the glory of being young and powerful—took Narcissa’s hand. No one noticed when he led her from the room and down to the summer house by the lake. No one heard the way he’d made her moan. 

The Ministry holding cell seemed crowded—crushed and crammed full with Rabastan and Narcissa and every memory the two of them conjured just by being within feet of each other. And yet within it, there was some small pocket of relief, some blessed oxygen that made Rabastan feel like he could breathe again. 

“How did you know?” Narcissa whispered, and Rabastan couldn’t help but snort. 

“The timing. That, and it was hardly subtle,” he said harshly, “when you named him from the same constellation my own name comes from. Did you enjoy that, Cissa? Taking my heart and torturing it and twisting it every time I heard his name.” 

Narcissa shut her eyes, and twin tears made tracks against her cheeks. Rabastan didn’t know how she did it—every day, every instant, she seemed more beautiful than the last. He opened his mouth to speak but Narcissa got there before him. 

“I wanted things to be different, you know.” 

Then, they were kissing as though their lives, their very beings depended on it; like the moon and the stars might not glitter and the sun might not rise if the two of them weren’t together. With their lips on one another—membrane upon membrane, skin upon skin—Rabastan thought he might just be able to lose himself. He might be able to forget the fact that they were standing in a claustrophobic holding cell in the Ministry of Magic, waiting for someone to come and drag him to trial. 

Eventually, they separated, arms still wrapped around one another. Rabastan could all but pour himself into Narcissa’s eyes. 

“Tell him about me,” he breathed, pressing his forehead against hers. “I’m not asking you to tell him who I am, just… speak about me with fondness, would you? I’d like him to know this is not who I once was.” 

A loud rap on the door and the sound of Alastor Moody’s voice calling made them jump apart. “Madam Malfoy! Your allotted time is up.” 

“I love you. Go,” Bastan urged, “don’t stay for the trial. Go home to your boy— _our_ boy.” 

Narcissa shook her head urgently as they heard keys jangling in the lock, Moody whistling all the while. “No. I owe it to him—to you—to see how this ends.” 

“I love you,” Rabastan repeated, his voice hoarse. “I love you like oceans are deep and rivers are wide and like the night bleeds into the burning edge of dawn. I love you, Narcissa.” 

The door swung open, and Moody stood there, silhouetted against the bright lights of the corridor outside. Narcissa had jumped away from Rabastan. She stared at him for all of a second, eyes scanning his face, as though she was desperate to remember the young man in front of her with the fair hair that fell onto his high forehead, with the strong jaw and the deep blue eyes. Finally, at Moody’s command, she stepped towards the door, only turning back to utter two final words to Rabastan. 

“I know.” 


	6. 1996

It felt like the Manor had barely changed. Apparating into the darkness, Rabastan had jumped at the sight of the bright white peacocks patrolling the front lawn, before remembering they’d been there for years. He found himself staring at them, their feathers shimmering in the moonlight as though bewitched, and wondering if they were the same peacocks. How long did a peacock live for? Not fourteen years, surely, because it had been fourteen years since he’d stepped over the threshold into Malfoy Manor. 

The drawing room looked the same, too. There was a sofa to the righthand side covered in a mint velvet that Rabastan remembered very well; he and Narcissa had spent a week in each other’s arms on that sofa when Lucius had been away on business. They’d listened to hours and hours of records, they’d eaten almost all their meals cross-legged on the floor in front of the fire, and they’d laughed their way through copious amounts of champagne. The room was like a moment captured in time, a brief flame in a sea of darkness from a point when everything had seemed so very hopeful. They’d been powerful. They’d meant something.

As they stepped further into the room, a figure rose out of one of the emerald green armchairs. Rabastan froze. Fourteen years later, and he knew who that was without even a moment’s hesitation. The boy had fair blond hair, a high forehead, and his mother’s eyes— _Cissa’s eyes._

There were embraces for Bellatrix—of course, _his aunt_ —and for Rodolphus, plus handshakes for Mulciber and Avery. Finally, the boy approached Rabastan. 

“Draco Malfoy,” he said, holding out his hand. 

“Of course,” Bastan let out a gasping sort of laugh, “you won’t remember me. The last time I saw you, you were just a baby.” He took Draco’s hand and shook it firmly. “Rabastan.”

“My mother’s told me a lot about you. Apparently you were quite the Quidditch player before… well, back in the day,” finished Draco awkwardly. 

“Yeah,” breathed Rabastan, unable to take his eyes off Draco’s face, “I played.” 

“Right.” Draco looked awkwardly over Rabastan’s shoulder. 

An elf interrupted them with a tray of drinks, and the conversation fizzled out into nothingness. Bellatrix was mentioning something about _updating the decor_ , and someone had put a record on, and it was all too much. Before long Rabastan found himself stepping out of the drawing room and onto the terrace. 

It was a clear night; the burning flames of the constellations bright against the inky black. Rabastan breathed deeply—the air here was fresh, clean. It smelled like the willows that he knew grew down by the lake, invisible in the darkness, and like the delicate jasmine flowers that had just begun to bloom. It wasn’t Lestrange Hall, but there was some part of Rabastan that felt a little like he’d come home. 

Behind him, he heard movement and glanced over his shoulder. Rodolphus stepped from the bright drawing room and into the soft darkness of the terrace. He was slower in his movements now than he had been last time the brothers had been at Malfoy Manor. Azkaban had not been kind to any of them, but Rodolphus had suffered the most—some sickness that hadn’t been diagnosed, but that made him stiff and sore. 

They stood together, breathing in the fresh air, until finally Rodolphus spoke. “He’s yours, isn’t he?” 

“What?”

“Draco.” Rodolphus jerked his head in the direction of the drawing room. “He’s your son.” 

Bastan coughed, the colour draining from his face. He glanced over his shoulder into the drawing room; thankfully, Narcissa, Draco and Bellatrix were sitting far enough from the door that they couldn’t possibly overhear. He turned back to Rodolphus. His voice was pleading as he stared into his brother’s face. “You can’t tell anyone, Dolphus.” 

Rodolphus held up his hands, one clutched around a cut crystal glass of deep red wine. “I won’t, I promise.” 

“How… how did you know?” 

“His jaw. He looks so much like Cissa but…” Rodolphus lifted the hand that held his wine glass, running the crystal against the line of his jaw. “This is pure Lestrange. He looks like you. He looks like _Papa_.” 

Somewhere in the darkness, the distinct call of a peregrine falcon sounded. The high, sharp note caught the brothers’ attention, and they stared into the dark grounds of Malfoy Manor, as though the bird was about to flash like lightning just beyond the edge of the moonlight. 

Rodolphus turned back to look at his brother. “When?” he asked, raising his glass to his lips. 

Rabastan swallowed. “That dinner party, do you remember? It was September. We were still powerful then— _he_ was still powerful. Lucius and Narcissa hosted us. Everyone was there, no one missed us when we slipped away.” 

Rodolphus raised his eyebrows and looked at his brother appraisingly. “That sounds like it wasn’t a one time thing.” 

“It wasn’t.” 

Rabastan knew the gravity of those words was sinking in as they stood together, the gentle embrace of the night’s darkness a comfort. He’d forgotten quite how _bright_ the world was when he was in Azkaban; even in the weak light of the morning or under the noon sun, Azkaban felt _dark._ The darkness had become like a shroud. It had enveloped the younger, more foolish people they had been, and they’d been buried in it. 

When Rodolphus spoke, his voice was soft, kinder than Bastan had thought it would be. “You never told me.” 

“There wasn’t much to tell. She chose someone else, Dolphus. The rest doesn’t matter.” Rabastan shrugged.

“Well, it mattered enough that you still fathered a son, Bastan.” 

Behind them, they heard the familiar sound of a gong being struck by a house elf, signalling them to dinner. Rodolphus glanced back into the drawing room, and then surveyed his brother. Rabastan could feel that piercing, appraising gaze on him as he stared resolutely into the darkness. 

“I’m going to ride the horses, tomorrow,” Rodolphus said finally. “Come with me? We can talk.” 

Rabastan said nothing, only nodded. Something was coming back between the brothers, now they were no longer separated by Dementors and shame and walls—a language they had thought lost to the sands of time that required no words at all. Rodolphus reached out a hand and squeezed Rabastan’s shoulder. Then, he turned, and stepped back into the drawing room’s amber light. 

Rabastan didn’t move. Again, in the distance, he heard the peregrine’s sound: that sharp, piercing shriek. He wanted to laugh all of a sudden, when he realised that it was the first birdsong he’d heard in fourteen years. _The falcon_. What was it they said the bird symbolised? He wracked his brains for that information, gleaned in some Care of Magical Creatures class all those years ago when things were simple and clear. That was it—the falcon, a symbol of victory. 

Another voice came from behind him.

“Draco and—well, the others have gone through to dinner, Bastan. Are you joining us?” 

Rabastan turned. There she was— _she_. Narcissa, standing there in her evening gown as though this was 1979 all over again and she was the lady of the Manor, entertaining the next generation of pureblood witches and wizards. Her hair—all at once blonder and darker than he remembered—was swept back from her face and in each ear sat a shimmering diamond. 

Rabastan thought the glitter in her blue eyes was dimmer now. She looked older—of course she did. But she looked tired, too, and world weary, and that surprised him. She’d escaped, hadn’t she? She escaped with everything in tact while the rest of their world had crumbled. When did Narcissa earn the right to be weary? 

“I’ll be through in a minute,” Rabastan replied gruffly. “I’m enjoying the air.” 

“I’ll wait with you, then,” she murmured in return. 

Rabastan didn’t reply. What was he supposed to say to her, after all those years? Should he ask about Draco? _What’s he like? Is he happy, Cissa?_ Or, perhaps, he should ask of her husband: _do you miss him, Narcissa—do you miss Lucius, the man who’s been raising our boy as his own_? _Was he a good enough father that you miss him?_

The only question Rabastan could muster came flooding from his lips. “Do you miss him?”

“Who?”

“Lucius.” 

“Yes…” Narcissa breathed, and then stopped. “And no. I miss his presence in the house, and God knows Draco misses him, but there’s a sense of relief, you know? The truth is finally out.”

“Is it?” Rabastan turned back to look into the darkness of the garden. “I’m glad someone thinks so.” 

“Bastan…” 

“No, Cissa,” he shook his head, “don’t tell me that it’s not true. Don’t tell me that the truth hasn't been dead and buried for years—long before the war ended, long before I went to Azkaban. The truth died between us the day you decided not to tell Lucius who Draco’s father really is. We can’t resurrect those bones.” 

Narcissa didn’t reply. He couldn’t look at her; instead, he looked back out into the night, into the gentle comfort of the darkness. Once upon a time, he’d have found it threatening. He’d have found all that open darkness something to fear. Nowadays, he wanted to crawl back into its constant embrace. 

Beside him, Narcissa spoke. “I’ve never told him because it would kill him.” 

“Lucius?”

“Draco. He idolises Lucius.”

Rabastan let out a deep sigh and looked at her out the corner of his eye. “I suppose that makes sense; Malfoy is certainly more of a useful surname nowadays than Lestrange is. Your sister made sure of that.” 

Narcissa made a noise of contempt and stepped in front of him. The light that poured out of the drawing room and onto the terrace cut across her, casting shadows over one half of her face. Her eyes were hard. “After fourteen years of Azkaban, you still can’t work out that you did as much damage to your family name as Bellatrix did?” 

Rabastan said nothing. He knew, deep down, that there was truth to what Narcissa said; even if things had been different, even if they’d won the war or even if they’d simply decided not to apparate into the cool night air in that Yorkshire village and torture the Longbottoms half to death, the Lestrange name was never going to recover. Rodolphus had been too reckless during the first war. He’d been careless with his money and his status and with himself. And Rabastan… he knew he’d done his fair share of damage, too. He’d made it his business to find out people’s secrets and to make them pay for whatever they were. Narcissa had counselled him to be careful— _of course she had_ —but he was too comfortable, too used to getting his way. He’d made enemies out of that. 

Swallowing, Rabastan met Narcissa’s eye. “Fourteen years is a hell of a long time.” 

“It is,” Narcissa breathed, and Rabastan jumped when he felt her hand slip into his, “and you’ve not changed, Bastan.” 

“You have.” 

“I had to.”

“Did you?” 

Narcissa sighed, opening her mouth and then closing it again as though struck by how there seemed to be no words for the situation they were in. As she did so, Rabastan studied her face. She looked so much like she always had, but—with a dull pain in his stomach—he realised that it wasn’t weariness that marred Narcissa’s perfect features. No, weariness was wrong. It was sadness. 

Eventually, she spoke. “You see, in many ways, you and Dolphus and Bellatrix were stuck in the past the moment they closed your cell door in Azkaban. You were going to be in 1981 until the moment you got out. But me…” Narcissa shook her head, a gasping sound coming up unexpectedly from her chest. “I had a son. I had to protect him.”

“Would you have left him for me?” Rabastan asked, his throat feeling like it constricted as he did so. He blinked rapidly. “If things had been different… because of Draco. Would you have left Lucius?” 

Narcissa nodded. She almost looked pained, and the reality of the situation seemed to hit Rabastan like a tidal wave. _She’d have left Lucius for him_. If only he’d been less reckless, less angry, he might have had the presence of mind not to go with Bellatrix and Rodolphus that night, high off whatever they’d snorted and whatever other pain he was carrying. 

“Fuck.” The word slipped from his lips before he could stop it. “ _Fuck_.”

“He’s so like you, you know.” Narcissa pressed her fingers into his hand a little more, holding him tighter. Rabastan tried to ignore the feel of her wedding band against his skin. 

“Really?” he asked. 

Narcissa nodded, her eyes glistening with tears yet to be shed. “He is. He’s even a Seeker, Bastan…” 

“Our son is like me…” Rabastan squeezed his eyes shut as tears began to fall. It had all been such a waste—his parents’ deaths, the war, losing himself to the pain and the grief only then to lose Narcissa and the only thing he’d ever really wanted, a son. 

“So come inside,” Narcissa murmured, and Rabastan opened his eyes. She was standing right in front of him, lips millimetres from his own. He was transported back to a time when they had been standing just like this, pressed together in the sitting room of his flat above Diagon Alley. Narcissa had begged him not to be angry with her, and he had pushed her away. 

“Come inside,” she repeated, eyes meeting Rabastan’s. What was it they used to say that was? _Blue meeting endless blue_. “Come inside, and get to know your son.”


End file.
